


I've Got Something In My Pocket

by aestivus



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aestivus/pseuds/aestivus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Darcy has had the ring in his pocket for months. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Got Something In My Pocket

**Author's Note:**

> Since when do I write fic? Since now, apparently. This fandom, man.
> 
> Melodramatic and briefly angsty. And then kind of saccharine. Sexual references, but nothing explicit.
> 
> (And the ring? Totally [this](http://www.kokopellinh.com/handmade-wedding-rings/engagement-rings/moonlit-sea-5-ct-diamond-and-opal-engagement-ring-p-5649.html).)

Darcy has had the ring in his pocket for months. 

He likes holding it, hidden, when he talks to her on the phone, or when he watches her make her videos, or when she's arguing with her mother about one thing or another. The little box is velvety beneath his fingers, and a reminder of all the things he's hoping for. 

They've been going out - officially - for six months, three days and twenty-two hours, and he'll never admit it, but he bought the ring soon after. 

He hadn't intended to. **She** had been taking far too long in the book section of that little antique store around the corner from the restaurant they'd been to for dinner, and he'd seen a beautiful roll-top desc across the store that he'd wanted to look at. There was a flaw in the desk (he couldn't pinpoint what it was, but he knew it wasn't quite right), but on the way back he'd gotten distracted. 

If he'd sat down and thought of it beforehand, he'd have said no diamonds, never, but he knew the ring as soon as he saw it. It was white gold, not yellow, the band inlaid with fine crystal opal - blue and green and more complex and rich than he could describe - with that sparkling diamond in the middle. "Put it aside for me," he'd told the storekeeper, a woman who smiled knowingly at him. "I will return." 

He'd thought about it all the night, until Lizzie's mouth on his made him forget all conscious thought. He'd thought about it again, later, when she'd fall asleep curled up against him, so perfectly peaceful and serene. He could imagine it on her finger, embarrassing and delighting her at every turn; he could imagine sliding it on there, and the look on her face when he did. 

He could imagine a lifetime, and had to force himself to stop. 

He'd come back the following day, so soon that even the woman in the shop had been surprised, for all that she'd covered it up well. 

"It's a beautiful piece," she had remarked, dropping it into the palm of his outstretched hand, letting him investigate it. "Timeless. A classic. Beautifully understated." 

"It's not a blood diamond?" 

It was the kind of thing Lizzie would care about, he was sure. 

The woman had smiled, and shook his head. "Goodness, no. I've the papers to prove it, if you need it. I almost hate to sell it, really. It was a young woman who sold it to me. She cried, and said she hated to do it, but it was the only thing of value she had. If it were between the engagement ring or her husband, she'd choose her husband anytime."

The story gave him pause; he turned his gaze back down to the ring, examining it from side to side. It wasn't like him, to buy something secondhand, when he could easily afford the new. He wondered if it would bother Lizzie, if he gave her a ring someone else had loved and lost. 

But it was a good thing, wasn't it? That that unknown woman had been willing to sacrifice her much-loved ring for love of her husband? The ring was just a symbol, and this ring… it seemed as though it had been given in love. _And will be again,_ he told himself. 

He bought it, and into his pocket it went - there to be touched with the tips of his fingers, a constant reminder, and a tangible symbol of his hopes and dreams. 

\----

Sometimes, he wonders if Lizzie considers it an affectation of his - that he keeps reaching into the pocket of his jacket, that he lets his fingers rest there when there's really no need. He's watched her watching him, and sometimes he yearns to tell her why - to show her. 

His Lizzie is not a bird to be caged, however. She can't be hurried. 

Now, her thoughts are on her career, and on this post-school life she's leading. When she talks about the future, it's new projects she's thinking about, not husband-and-family. 

Lizzie thinks too much, except about the things she's not ready to think about; he knows that, has known that for a long time. He could raise the question, but what point would there be? 

He could end up pushing her away. 

The ring stays in his pocket. 

\----

He may be overthinking this. 

It's been nineteen months, six days and almost certainly a few hours, and sometimes Lizzie gives him thoughtful looks that have nothing to do with the way he puts his hand in his pocket (he knows this, because sometimes he's not wearing his jacket… or anything at all). 

She still has big plans for the future: work plans. He'll stop her in the middle of the recitation of some of these and say, "I love you," and sometimes she seems almost surprised, though she'll always say, "I love you too." They wake up in the same bed every morning, and they buy linen and silverware and plan vacations in far-off places, but the future - their future - always seems off limits. 

Sometimes he wonders if she sees this as just a fling - a just-for-now relationship that will be discarded like one of the costumes in her long-since defunct videos. He has seen, after all, how awkward Lizzie gets when her mother starts making remarks about the loveliness of spring weddings, and how at least **Jane** is doing her duty. 

They don't talk about that, either. 

\----

It's twenty-one months into their relationship when she finds the ring box in the pocket of his jacket. How she's managed to avoid that for so long is hard to fathom; exactly what prompted this particular discovery he has no idea. 

He comes home to find her sitting on the staircase, his coat in her lap, and the ring box sitting on top of it. She's staring at it, as though by doing so she can bore holes in it, or perhaps learn everything there could possibly be about it, just like that. 

"Lizzie--" he begins, seeing her there, a lump forming in his throat. 

"How long?" 

The question leaves him without words. She's still not looking at him, and he has no idea what she's thinking. That expressive face is so blank and still, so impossibly empty. 

"Years." His voice is so quiet - so restrained. He wants to get down on his knees and explain everything, but his throat is dry and his joints won't move. 

"How **long** , Will." 

He swallows. Hard. "Almost since the beginning. I saw it and I knew-- Lizzie. Talk to me." 

There were tears in her eyes; he could see that now. All at once, he felt himself moving: felt himself crossing the passage towards her, up the stairs so that he could sit beside her and put his arm around her unyielding body. Usually, she'd lean in to him. Today, she sat quite still. 

"Were you ever going to tell me? Ask me? Talk to me?" 

"I was…" he felt it like a sickening twist in his stomach: a realisation he'd been putting off for so very long. "Afraid. I wanted to be sure you would say yes before I…"

And then: "I couldn't bear to be rejected by you again." 

She's sobbing, now, and though Darcy-of-today is better equipped to deal with emotions than the Darcy-that-once-was, this is all new to him. Not tears - but **this**. He can't even work out whether she's happy or sad. If she's rejecting him. If this is… 

Over. 

But he knows enough to draw her into his lap, and nudge her head into his shoulder. She'll leave tear-stains over the fine linen of his shirt, but it's no matter; this is far more important. The ringbox and his jacket slide from her lap as he moves her, and neither of them go after them: that in and of itself speaks volumes to him. 

_So this is it._ His stomach twists.

He wants to join her in tears; he can't. 

It's a long time before she speaks again, and when she does, her words are so muffled he has to strain to hear them, even though her mouth is not so far from his ear. 

"Did you really think I would say no?" 

He can't think of anything to say. 

He can't make his arms move enough to stop her as she launches herself free of his grasp, and runs up the stairs. 

\----

He's bewildered. 

It feels like she was trying to say that she would have said yes, but he no longer trusts his instincts. 

Lizzie has been in the bedroom - their bedroom - for hours, now, and he has been lurking in the hallway, trying to get up the courage to knock. 

He doesn't know if she'll let him in. 

He doesn't know if he wants her to. 

The ring is back in his pocket, now; he's hung the jacket off the coat-rack near the door, where he can not-see it. 

As if he can forget. 

Eventually, he crawls into bed in one of the guest rooms and tries not to cry. 

\----

When he wakes up, it's because there's something warm and soft and **round** beneath his hand, and something tickling his nose. It's still dark: it must still be the early hours of the morning, he supposes, attempting to remember where he is, and why. 

It takes longer than it probably should, but mostly because there's a naked redhead who has burrowed into his warmth: her hair is up his nose, and it's her soft, round breast that fills his hand. 

It's given rise to something else, too, and that is **definitely** not making it any easier to think straight. 

She mews in her sleep, and that's when it all hits him, coming back to the forefront of his brain like a slap in the face - instantly, he pulls his hand away, and rolls away. Her sound of disapproval is unconscious; it must be, because a moment later she's rolling into the warm spot he's so recently vacated, burying her head in his pillow. 

The blankets have slid away, leaving her fine, pale back exposed to the air, all the way down to that soft curve just above the arse. She's so beautiful he wants to cry all over again. 

\----

He's sitting in the chair across from the bed when she wakes up, fully-dressed. Tie included. 

It takes her a moment to work out where she is, too: she rubs the sleep from her eyes, rolls over, and then she's staring at him. 

He opens his mouth to say something (though he has no idea what: he's hoping the words will come to him before he looks stupid), but she gets there first. 

"It's cold in here. You should come warm me up." 

It's not what he's expecting. 

(The petulant twist of her mouth is horribly fetching.)

"Lizzie--" 

" **Will**."

The challenging look in her eyes stops him from answering - and that's probably better, because she goes on. "If you're not ready to propose to me, that's fine. Take all the time you need. We all know you're better off not rushing into things. You tend to make a hash of them."

He'd like to argue that, but though she may have forgiven him that first declaration of love, it's still something that haunts his memory. 

"I don't need a ring to know I love you."

All of a sudden, he desperately wishes that he'd brought the ring in - that he had it here, now, so that he could get down on one knee and do it properly. Prove her wrong. 

The coat-rack downstairs is a very long way away. 

"I didn't think **you** were ready." 

Lizzie stares, and the blanket drops further, revealing the soft curves of her breasts, except where her sleep-mussed hair covers them. She **is** cold. 

"But--"

He has no idea why she suddenly begins to laugh - or why it prompts her to get out of bed, walk over to him, and crawl into his lap, arms snug around his neck. "I didn't want to presume," she says, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. "My mother…"

"Lizzie Bennet," he begins, reaching around to tilt her chin so that he can look her in the eyes. "I don't care a whit about what your mother says, or thinks. I think only of you."

"And?"

This is not how he has imagined it. All those daydreams of fancy meals and special occasions fall to the wayside, as he feels her grind her hips against him (feels himself react, too, suddenly restricted by the trousers that seemed like such a good idea not so very long ago). 

He's carried that ring around for the better part of two years, and now, when the moment is finally right, he doesn't have it. 

And it doesn't matter a bit. 

"Will you do the honour of marrying me, Lizzie Bennet?"

Does it matter that she doesn't actually say yes? Not with words, anyway: not when her kiss can say it, and the arch of her body as she peels away his belt, and unbuttons his trousers. 

These symbols are enough. 

\----

It's much later before they make it downstairs to that coat and the little box that has been wearing a hole in that pocket. It's a little late for the traditional approach, but Darcy tries it anyway: he gets down on one knee and offers it to her, and he's pretty sure her squeal is a self-deprecating one, rather as though this were on camera (he's pretty sure it isn't). 

He slides the ring onto her finger, and she can't stop staring at it: her slender, pale finger, that dazzling diamond and fire-rich opal. **He** can't take his eyes off of her. 

His Lizzie.


End file.
